


Silver and Steel

by dovahqueene



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Skyrim
Genre: F/M, POV Multiple, The Circle, The Companions - Freeform, The Silver Hand - Freeform, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovahqueene/pseuds/dovahqueene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years following the demise of the Silver Hand, the remnants of the Circle noticed a sudden spike of werewolf deaths in Whiterun, leading them to believe the Silver Hand wasn't truthfully wiped out. When their Harbinger departed on a lone journey to scour Riften, she seemingly disappears. Vilkas searches for his Harbinger, and nearly six months after, the woman he finds is no longer the Harbinger that left so long ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this first chapter is short (and boring). If you have any comments about my writing please don't hesitate to say anything, I could always use some constructive criticism! (:

He had never seen her asleep before, and the thought had never occurred to him until he stood directly outside her chambers. Four years she'd been a Companion, three of which she'd been Harbinger, but never had he seen her sleep.

Vilkas' skin was still warm from the late morning light that bathed Whiterun that day. He'd been thoroughly enjoying himself until Aela came to him, a somber look on her face and a request to rouse Niredia. Before he'd gone down to the Harbinger's chambers, Aela had whispered something that chilled him to the core.

The Silver Hand was back.

Lightly, Vilkas pushed the door open to avoid a creak. The room he looked in was an utterly familiar sight, although he was rarely down here anymore. It used to be that he could speak to Kodlak every day about the beast blood, getting the confessions that clouded his mind released for a little bit of a lighter step. But now, this was Niredia's room, and she wasn't wise like Kodlak. She was younger than Vilkas, for Talos' sake.

Some nagging voice in the back of his mind told him he was just jealous, and he shoved it back. That was probably the reason that their conversations sometimes got quite heated, leading to punches that the mead hall seemed to adore.

He continued to the two doors that opened up into the bedroom part of the chambers, where the sleeping Harbinger lay. It was odd, seeing her like that. Eyes shut, dark lashes touching her cheeks. The only light in the room was a still-burning candle on the bedside table, presumably being used to read the large book sticking out from the sea of blanket. Her pale pink lips were open just slightly, and her breaths were quieter than the dead.

While Niredia was anything but delicate, that was the only word that came to Vilkas' mind. Awake, she walked the halls of Jorrvaskr with a fierce look. He didn't think it was something she meant to do, but that she managed to always look angry even if she was in a neutral mood. He never commented on it, never said anything to her, really; Most of anything he said to her turned quickly into a heated argument. More than once it had turned into fists swinging. There was no real reason Vilkas had an inkling of hatred for the Harbinger, she just bit down on every nerve. In the back of his mind, a nagging voice teased him that it was because of jealousy.

It felt, quite suddenly, like a breach of privacy as Vilkas stared at the sleeping Imperial. He quietly shut the door and, after a moment, rapped on the door.

"Harbinger, Aela wishes to urgently speak with you," he said flatly. The stirring of blankets could be heard inside. "We'll be in the Underforge." He hesitated a moment, listening, and then asked, "Did you hear me?"

"Yes," Niredia yawned, muffled through the wood and stone. "I'll be there in a moment."

Although she couldn't see him, Vilkas nodded and turned from the room. On his way towards the Underforge, he passed Ria, who flashed him a shining grin as she ducked back inside the open door to Jorrvaskr.

The Underforge smelled as it always did – dank, like any underground cave, and a bit like blood. His boots stepped loudly across the stone to stand in front of the small bowl caked in dried red. He'd always hated the Underforge, the cave sharply giving him the memory of exchanging glances with Farkas as a young Skjor with both of his eyes had his hand cut with a dagger to spill enough blood to turn two young boys into werewolves. 

Aela and Farkas stood silently. The two never had anything to say to each other, except when Aela called him Ice-Brain. Before, her and Skjor had jokingly teased the twins, but with Skjor's death the relationships had dwindled down to awkward nods in the hall. Vilkas never thought too deep into it.

"Is she coming?" Aela inquired, her hard gaze glancing to Vilkas, who nodded.

Immediately after, the door opened and Niredia glided in, black hair dancing behind her. The bit of light in the little cave glinted off of the Ring of Hircine on her right index finger, chipped in scratched. Her pale green eyes centered on Aela. "What's going on?" she asked, not unkindly.

Aela took a breath, "It appears the Silver Hand is back."

Niredia sucked in a sharp breath of air, dark brows shooting up in a mix of surprise and distress. Farkas raised his brows, shaking his head before wondering, "I thought you two wiped them out?"

Before the party in question could respond, Aela did so for them. "Well, even so, it appears a few stragglers made it out. But it seems they aren't as... well, they were never harmless, but they're even worse now."

Dread seemed to seep through cracks in the stone like rainwater. "What do you mean?" Niredia asked, voice low and cautious.

"They've been leaving signs," Aela clarified, "of who they are. Silver swords stuck in the mud beside the bodies, scraps of paper with the Silver Hand written stabbed through with silver daggers into a body, things like that. Obviously, the guards won't do anything when the bodies are found. We'll have to do something ourselves."

Her eyes slid across the group, narrowed, clearly stating her meaning.

The four of them were going to chase down the Silver Hand – alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Once again, fists were swinging between Athis and Njada, the Dunmer and arrogant Nord hurling insults at each other as they swung and missed, or hit right on in Athis' case. Although she didn't care to admit it, Niredia was glad Njada was loosing – the woman had been nothing but rude to her since day one.

Covered by her tankard was a letter that had been intercepted by Farkas when he and Ria had gone not to far to wipe out a few Falmer for extra coin. He hadn't read it himself yet, because he said that it would've taken less time to get back with it and have someone else read it than it would take for him to struggle through the words.

It was still folded and probably a bit damp from Niredia's cold tankard of mead resting on it. Behind her, Ria stood up, probably going to get a closer view of the fight, and the Harbinger permitted herself to finally reaad the letter. With calloused hands she unfolded it and, keeping it low so no prying eyes could see it, began to read:

_Undgvar,_

_I've told you this a thousand times and I'll tell you again: You're going to get yourself killed in the Hand. And what did you expect? Of course the beasts are going to be snooping around if you practically sign your work._

_My son, you're going to get yourself killed. Knock of this nonsense and come back to Riften. I can convince Telnax to give you some work on the farm, and you can sleep in the extra bed. Earn an honest income, like your father. I don't want to see you dead too._

_Hoping for your response and return,_

_Tavti Nuloth_

With a resigned sigh, Niredia let the note flutter back to the table. It was something, at least – now she had a name. Undgvar, and Tavti Nuloth. She'd come from Cyrodiil nearly thirteen years ago and had yet to figure out the odd names Nords gave their children.

And she had a location – a farm in or near Riften. The more she thought about it, the more surprised she was that the fool sending the note hadn't done more to keep it safe. When delivering a letter, shouldn't a courier ask for a description of the person they're looking for?

It looked like they were getting closer and closer to the final demise of the Silver Hand.

* * *

 

Since she'd gotten there, Niredia had been on alert for the known thieves of Riften. So far, no one had tried her, possibly because of the face she always made that Aela had pointed out.

A milk-white Argonian stepped forward to the bar. "Want a drink? Talen-Jei has something you may like," she said.

Niredia shook her head and asked if the Argonian knew someone named Undgvar or Tavti, but she just shrugged and turned to another customer.

"Did I just hear you ask for Undgvar?" the other Argonian, presumably Talen-Jei, asked, holding a broom. He appeared more approachable then the other one at the bar.

"You know him?" Niredia inquired, turning around on her stool and jumping off.

Talen-Jei nodded. "We used to get our food from him and his parent's farm. Not his real parents, of course, he was adopted from Honorhall. He used to sneak around and try to pickpocket from people when he was a kid. Nasty little sneak, but they gave us good prices." He gave a sweep of his broom. "Do you have a map? I think there's some ink and a quill behind the bar, I could mark the location."

The Imperial nodded her head and reached into one of the pouches along her belt. She pulled out a thick, rolled up piece of parchment she'd gotten when she first left Winterhold for Whiterun, and the Companions. Her sister had stayed behind, though the communication between the two never wavered despite the distance.

Dipping the tip of a quill in some ink, Talen-Jei marked an X just outside of the small house she'd drawn to symbolize Shor's Stone. "That's it. I know that Tavti still lives there, but her husband's long dead, and Undgvar joined some kind of bandit clan that targets... something." The Argonian shrugged. "I don't know, but Tavti doesn't sell anymore. She's been sick for a while, and can't make the journey up here on her own. Guess she's just waiting for death."

Niredia shifted uncomfortably at Talen-Jei's sudden morbidness. He continued, "She might be able to point you in the direction of Undgvar."

"Thank you," Niredia said. Talen-Jei nodded and continued his sweeping as the Harbinger of the Companions turned and left the inn.

* * *

 

It was a cold, wet journey, what with the rain. Niredia was shaking in her armor when she finally made it to the small farm with dead plants wasting away. A pathetic windmill creaked with the weight of the rainwater hitting it. This had to be it, although Niredia wouldn't know; she hadn't been able to even check her map to risk getting it soaked.

The edge of the roof gave her a bit of protection as she knocked on the door, which a Redguard woman answered. Her face was weathered, her hair graying, and she was slightly hunched over as she greeted Niredia, who said, "Um, are you Tavti Nuloth? I was looking for Undgvar."

The Redguard's mouth became a thin line. "Of course you are."

Niredia's eyebrows knitted together in confusion just before some hard hit her in the back of the head.


	3. Chapter 3

Biting pain lanced through every part of Niredia's body as something dipped in hot silver was rubbed down her arm. Her screams had long since been reduced to mere whimpers, her eyes blurred over into near blindness. All she could see by now was the blur of dark robes of the High elf with golden everything as he found some other way to hurt her, mumbled something, and then scribbled something down in a leather bound notebook.

"Are you going to finish up on it anytime soon?" a Nord grumbled. "The others don't like having one of _them_ in here." He'd been uneasily standing there since Niredia'd woke up, a patchy, scruffy beard on a sharp jawline. A hunting bow strapped across his back, accompanying the other details that the werewolf noticed when her eyes focused. They only managed to do that when the elf took a break to write something that she presumed was about her reaction to the silver and the pain.

"Hush, Undgvar," the elf said in a haughty voice. "You're getting your pay."

The famed Undgvar huffed and turned away, walking quickly into a stone hallway that Niredia had once walked through as a proud, angry warrior seeking revenge for Kodlak's death. Now she was across from it, hanging uncomfortably and doing her damnedest to keep her weight from breaking her wrists.

How long had she been here? A day, two, three? They'd injured her enough for three lifetimes, with every kind of weapon imaginable. Silver swords and daggers, even iron rods dipped in melted silver. It burned, even cold.

The elf _hmm_ ed and _oh_ ed as he scribbled about Niredia's reactions to the pain. Tears whetted her face, soaking it more than the blood on her clothes. She wondered constantly if they were looking for her, and how long she was going to have to be hanging here before they found her or... until she died.

When she'd awoken, she had felt a tug on her wrists where the shackles were. The elf had looked up upon her awakening, shutting his leather bound journal and picking the blade up from the table. Silver, long, and soon to be coated in her blood.

They hadn't directly stabbed her, just dragged the flat side of the blade down her bare arms and giving small cuts that burned worse if the sword was left on too long, crusting around the edges. At least, the ones she could see were.

A headache bloomed in her temples. Despite the pain lancing through her arms, she couldn't help but focus on its specific pain.

At least the shackles weren't made of silver.

* * *

 

Winter was encasing Skyrim, and Niredia had left in the summer. Her disappearance had all of the Companions worrying, although Vilkas had seen Njada smirking more often lately.

Heavy hearts weighed in Jorrvaskr, all wondering where on Nirn Niredia was. A week ago, they'd sent a letter to her sister, and the mage had just arrived from Winterhold.

Aela was asking if she'd seen anything of Niredia, but Vilkas knew that if she had then the Circle would have too. They were at a loss. Where could she be?

With a sigh, he pushed up from the mead hall's table. He needed some air to clear his head.

Minutes of the day were ticking by, and the sun sat behind Jorrvaskr. In the shadows Vilkas barely saw the Breton courier approaching.

"Are you a Companion? I was asked to deliver this to a Circle member," the courier explained. "Could you give this to one?"  
"Aye," Vilkas said and held his hand out.

The courier nodded and handed both a letter and a small leather pouch to Vilkas. He stuck a finger into the pouch and pulled it open, emptying the contents into his hand. A ring of Hircine dropped into his palm. Niredia's ring.

His eyes widened and he quickly unfolded the letter. Was this a sign saying she was find?

He opened the letter and his heart dropped:

_Stop looking, beast. She's ours now._

Vilkas' heart sped up and he nearly dropped Niredia's ring. His eyes flashed to the courier. "Who sent this?" he rushed. "Tell me where they're at."

Frightened, the courier said, "I-I don't know who. Nord fellow, wore furs, up near Dawnstar. He didn't give me a name."

Vilkas nodded and the courier ran off, still spooked. A string of denial ran through his head. _No no, they don't have her, they're bluffing..._

It seemed she wasn't dead though. If she was they would've worded it differently. And now, it appeared he had a lead. Near Dawnstar, a Nord wearing furs...

"What do they mean by ' _she's ours now'_?" Aela asked later as if Vilkas should now.

The werewolf shrugged his heavy shoulders, shaking his head. This was exactly as he had thought – the two other remaining members of the Circle thought Niredia was dead.

But Vilkas had a feeling – she wasn't dead, no, she was alive, but she was with the Hand.

And in all honesty, Vilkas couldn't decide which fate was worse.

* * *

It was hard to sleep hanging there like that, and Niredia could barely keep her eyes open. It was a horrible combination to bear, but what could she do?

Dark figures whispered in the hall, their quiet voices growing louder with their footsteps. Niredia's tired us peeled open and stared up at two Silver Hand, one a Breton holding a long, thick bundle or rope. The other, a Dunmer, had a gleaming bronze key in his gray-skinned hand.

"C'mon, we gotta get her to Calcen," the one with the key said as he unlocked her shackles. It clicked open and she let her hand drop - she could barely hold it up. Her other one fell into her lap after, and she could see bruises blossoming where the rusting cuffs had been holding her.

Niredia's wrist's freedom was short-lived, because soon after relief flooded up her arms, the Hand holding the rope lifted her hands up. With no mercy he wrapped the rope around her wrists tightly, tugging hard it either to ensure her that it was tight or just to bring her more pain. The latter, she decided, as his lips twitched upward when she winced.

They forced her to stand up, and Niredia realized suddenly that she couldn't feel her legs. As expected they didn't slow for her to try to, but dragged her along as she forced herself to stand. It felt like stabbing her legs over and over again with sewing pins. Every one of her burns and cuts were screaming as she walked, and she could feel some of them tearing. Blood trickled down from her side, creating a deep red splotch on the side of a dark brown tunic she'd woken up with.

Two hands gripped her forearms hard enough for one of her injuries to tug. Yet again, blood began to drip from a previously dried with clotted blood wound. She gritted her teeth as her weak legs barely held herself up.

They carried her up an icy slope to a cage. On the floor of it was a dead horse, still wearing reigns. The Hands shoved her in, causing her to stumble over the horses feet. She struggled to sit up. Across from her, a werewolf seethed, its furry body coated in slick red blood. Its eyes were gleaming amber and wild. Niredia could see claw marks in the ice below it.

A blur of gold caught her attention. The elf was there, and behind him stood Undgvar who carried silver weaponry in his arms. A sword, a dagger, and a quiver of arrows that were dipped in silver. They'd shot one into her foot earlier.

"Honestly, werewolf," the elf said, "you're making things a bit harder than I would prefer. I had assumed that by now I would've already killed you. Now, I just need you in your... other form, and then we'll be done with this messy business."

"Finally," Undgvar mumbled, shifting. As much as Niredia hated to admit it, he was rather handsome. She assumed that the patches on his face were the product of a fight, because they'd grown in fine. His eyes were narrowed at her, probably disgusted. With her sight, she could see their shining blue.

"These good people will be getting their pay, you'll be out of a misery, I have what I need," the elf continued. "If you will." He gestured at her, and then the other werewolf who growled menacingly. 

Niredia stood up. _An end to this,_ she thought, _finally the end of t_ _his gods awful pain._ Images of her idea of the Hunting Grounds flashed before her eyes, and the thought was as assuring as getting a deep warm hug.

But then another thought occurred to her. This elf would get what he wanted, using her as an object that he could throw away when he was done. In a small spark of rebellion, she spat, "No," and sat down with a smirk.

"No?" the elf sputtered. " _No?_ What are you saying? You do realize that I have, practically, complete control of over you?" He snatched the bow from Undgvar and swung the quiver over her back. He pulled an arrow and shot, the arrow stabbing into her arm. It burned like the flames of Oblivion and she grunted as she was pushed back into the wall of the cage. She could vaguely feel the ice through her bloody and torn tunic.

Curling herself further back into the corner of the cage, Niredia watched as the elf pulled another arrow, this one catching her leg. She whimpered, feeling a familiar uncomfortable feeling of fur growing on her arms. She shoved away anything having to do with her beast, thinking of... of books! Books, paper cuts, intriguing story lines, falling asleep gripping books and waking up with the pages on her face.

Arrows hit Niredia's body and the pain was dwelling on her mind, but she could do nothing about it. Try as she might, the pain was to sharp and hot to ignore until the elf ran out of arrows.

"Make some more," he snarled.

"That's not what you're paying me for, Calcen," Undgvar mumbled and dropped the sword and dagger to the ground. "Make your own damn arrows."

His retreating form was the last thing Niredia saw before she blacked out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter is pretty boring...

Despite a grueling four months of searching for their Harbinger, he Circle had yet to turn up a thing on her. Farkas remained in the Rift, finding only that Niredia had asked an innkeeper about Undgvar and been sent to his mothers farm, where Farkas had declared void of life. Aela had abandoned Winterhold and began to search Haafingar.

Vilkas remained in the frigid Dawnstar, searching every abandoned fort, town, and otherwise for her, though nothing was turning up.

He stood, now, quite distanced from a familiar, short building that he recognized from a few years ago. What looked still like the pikes that had held the heads of dead werewolves and their milky eyes were still lodged in the ground.

When the thought had first occured to him, he'd nearly punched himself for looking so daft. It was quite possible that the Silver Hand had holed back up in Driftshade, and from here Vilkas had decided that it was either them or bandits that patrolled it now.

With the ongoing war, it _could_ be soldiers, but he doubted either the Legion or the Stormcloaks would let the place stay just as shabby. There wasn't a single flag, either.

As Vilkas stared at the fort, he wished that he had accepted the many lessons with a bow that both Aela and Niredia (no matter how much they disliked each other) had offered, or at least had one with him. It might've even helped just to shoot the leg of the one who looked rather angry and tough, just to take them down. 

He began to move, trying his hardest to cling to the trees and rocks. There was no way to sneak by them – not with his skills, anyway. Sometimes he managed to sneak past a bandit or so, but there were at least five of them there. Three of them gathered, chatting dully in together. One sat atop the roof, playing with an arrow and a bow lying beside him. 

Slowly, Vilkas moved to the back of the building. He had a small memory of a ramp at the back, although he wasn't sure if it was there now. He assumed that was how the one on top had gotten there. 

Sure enough, it was there. It creaked under his weight, but with the shrieking wind, it was drowned out. He pulled his sword, gripping it tightly and doing his best to sneak. 

But he was never as good at sneaking as Niredia had been. His boots were heavy and they hit the stone hard, and the man who played the arrow turned around just as Vilkas' sword drove through his back. 

Blood sprayed on the hilt of his sword and hands, and his face a bit. The man's eyes widened, and Vilkas noticed the silver sword equipped to his belt. 

It was them.

The body tumbled forward and hit the ground below with a sickening crack, causing the other four to turn and rush towards it. Vilkas clambered down and swung his sword, catching the big one in the side, causing her to fall to the ground and soak it with her blood, and the three who had been gathering together scrambled for their swords and daggers, obviously made of silver. Their smaller weapons clanked off of Vilkas' armor, and he managed to pierce his own blade through all of their fur armors.

He was already soaked in blood as he entered Driftshade to rescue his Harbinger.

* * *

 

Someone was fighting upstairs.

It had been happening a lot lately – the dead of winter was upon them, as Niredia had heard from a conversation of two of the guards that barely even did their job. Tempers were running high with having to be locked away in here all night and day. The only ones allowed outside were the ones who patrolled.

Of course, none of them felt as locked up as Niredia, with her shackles and their constant egging for her to transform. 

Her memory was foggy. She remembered her name, where she was,  _what_ she was...

Her name was Niredia. She was in Driftshade; she was a werewolf. She was scared, and in a lot of pain. The silver weapons hurt more than the iron ones, and she knew that it was because werewolves were more susceptible to silver. Right? 

Vague memories popped up occasionally. There was the name that she could hear in her head occasionally – Vilkas. She held on to it, like an anchor keeping her sane.

_Vilkas, Vilkas, Vilkas..._

It helped most when they were torturing her. They'd sawed off her hair long ago, because apparently, they were tired of having to push it out of her eyes so she could see what they were doing.

They were _cruel._ It didn't matter what they believed, this was too harsh for anyone. Once, they'd left a silver dagger in her thigh for a week. It still ached.

A few memories were roaming around in her head, but they were cloudy and thick and if she thought too hard on them, it felt like she was stretching a drum skin over a base too large. 

But again, there were the details that she wouldn't forget:  _Niredia, Driftshade, werewolf..._

_And I will not break._

* * *

 

It was late at night, so Vilkas was relieved to find most of the Silver Hand occupying Driftshade asleep. A man with a scruffy beard and an agitated look was the only one awake, but he was easy enough to slip by.

He caught a glance at a Redguard woman with gray hair lying sickly on a bed. Her dark skin was shining in the dimming candlelight with the sweat of a fever, and Vilkas could only image how sick she clearly was.

Vilkas hated the way his thoughts were working. _I can smell her_ , he was thinking. _I smell sweat and blood, but I smell her._

He made his way down the fort, getting closer and closer, and relief was jumping through him. She was alive, which he realized now had been more than he had hoped for. He hated to imagine what state Niredia was in, however, and what they had done to her.

When Vilkas finally saw her, it was a bit of a shock. She was bloody and limp and frail, her previously long and thick black hair reduced to jagged black tendrils that hung in desperate knots around her head. Spots of dried blood covered her pale body, and the ragged tunic she was wearing was cut with knife marks. Wounds made up her body more than skin did.

The worst part was her heartbeat. It sounded desperate and painful, like it was struggling to keep its owner alive. And by the look of things, it was.

Slowly, Vilkas walked towards Niredia. His boots made a heavy metal sound on the stone floor, and she looked up. Her eyes blinked, but not in recognition. In fear, it seemed, because soon after she became to tremble, and then she was tugging on the shackles that held her. Whimpers escaped her lips, and Vilkas watched as one of her many cuts tore open and blood spread down her leg. The one that did it seemed particularly nasty.

"It's okay," he mumbled. "I'm here to rescue you. See?" To assure her, he pulled off the sword from his back and gently set it down. "Is there a key anywhere?"

She blinked at him as if she didn't understand him. "Niredia?" he asked cautiously, his voice slightly louder than before.

It seemed as if the sickly looking Harbinger relaxed. She shut her eyes and said in a quiet, shaky voice, "Vilkas. Vilkas."


	5. Chapter 5

The man was familiar, there was no doubt about that. He was telling Niredia that he was here to rescue her, not to harm her – he'd even set his sword down. So why was she so scared? Try as she might, she couldn't seem to quell the note of fear humming through her.

The armor he wore was covered with freckles of blood, leading Niredia to assume that he was the cause of the fighting upstairs, although there was no way he could make it through all of the guards. She could tell what he was, the smell of him letting her know exactly what... Perhaps that was part of the reason she was trying to get out of the manacles around her wrist and why she was whimpering.

"Is there a key anywhere?" the man asked with a thick Nordic accent.

Again, his voice was familiar, but Niredia couldn't stop shaking. The fear grew to a point in her gut and the name came to her lips, _"Vilkas. Vilkas._ "

Before her the man's shoulders sagged in what seemed to be relief. "I was thinking you'd lost your memory," he said with a small flicker of a smile. 

Oh. So this was Vilkas. 

"Key?" Vilkas asked again. His eyes moved to the manacles around her wrists. With no answer, he turned and searched around on the table for the small bronze key that the Silver Hand used when Calcen requested her. He used both silver and magic to harm her when she balled up in the icy cage, usually a lightning spell that made her feel like her bones were crumbling. 

It was found in the center of the journal bound in leather, sticking just over halfway out to catch Vilkas' attention. "Ah," he said quietly, lifting it up and cracking it open. The spine creaked as the key fell out and clinked into his metal gauntleted palm. 

His steely eyes seemed to catch on some of the words in Calcen's journal, as they skipped steadily about the thick slips of parchment in the book. "Wha..." 

Vilkas pocketed the book and shook his head, using the key to quickly unlock the manacles. Niredia's bruised wrists fell down, and then she did, her weak legs shaking as she tried to stand.

"Here," Vilkas said, wrapping his arm around her waist to help carry her. He smelled like blood and steel, the metallic smells mingling in Niredia's nose. 

The other werewolf's grip loosened as he tried to let her stand on her own, and as she lifted up her arms to grab the wall for balance, black spots appeared in front of her vision.

She stumbled sideways and landed in a set of warm arms as she slipped away.

* * *

 

She was surrounded by cold when she woke up. Around her was a frigid, untouching air flecked snow, save for her right side. This was a sharper cold, like metal, that burned and bit her more than the howling wind.

For a second, Niredia wondered if they'd taken her outside and were finally just going to kill her. It seemed odd that they were going to do it in the snow in the freezing cold, but what logic did the Silver Hand really have?

She let her eyes open, but instead of seeing the mossy stone ceiling or the roof of Driftshade, she saw dark snow clouds and snowflakes that hit her eyes and burned. A breath through her nostrils burned them, so she opened her mouth.

Beside her, she realized now, was no Silver Hand. Quite the opposite, actually. 

The Nord's hair was dark, his eyes staring straight ahead as he walked. His stalk wasn't very graceful, and Niredia wondered how she hadn't realized she was being carried.

She rolled out of his grip quickly, to get away from him in a spark of fear and shock. She hit the snowy ground hard and yelped. 

Vilkas froze and peered down at her. "What did you do that for?" he grumbled. "You can't walk on your own; last time you tried to you blacked out."

Niredia could walk fine – they made her do it at Driftshade. Of course, they'd been gripping her arms rather tight and lifting her a bit, but she just needed a little help.

"I-I can do it," she stammered, trying to push herself off the ground.

Vilkas huffed and stuck his hand out to offer help. Clearly, it wasn't very welcoming, but she took it anyway. She couldn't help but notice the way is arm reluctantly moved as he put it around her waist. 

After a few moments of awkward walking, a headache started to pound in her skull. This little bit of walking was too much for her, and already her legs were aching.

It took only a few moments for her to collapse and Vilkas to mumble, "Damn it."

* * *

 

By the time Niredia awoke again, she was warmer than fire. Thick blankets covered her to the chin, and after a moment of twisting to get comfort, she felt even thicker bandages around her body. It hurt when her eyes opened, like tearing skin, and it took more time than one would think for them to focus.

Pushed up against the stone wall was a dresser that held more books than clothes, a small nub of a candle with a tiny wick resting on it.

She wondered if she could stand up. It didn't seem likely when she struggled to push the blankets off, revealing a body bare of anything but bandages that left on her calves and wrists bare; it felt like wearing armor without boots or gauntlets.

Niredia's bare feet hit the stone cold ground and, with a deep breath, stood up. Immediately she slumped backwards, squeezing her eyes shut. 

It was pathetic that she couldn't even stand up. A shaky breath came out of her lips and she nearly choked on it. Every fiber of her body ached and she layed back down, her head gently touching the pillow.

Where was she? It was familiar, her eyes sliding around the room to grasp anything that would hint to it.  _Jorr... Jorrvaskr? Yes, that's it!_

This was Jorrvaskr. That's where she was, or at least she _thought_ so. Besides Driftshade, that was the only location's name she could think of.

Shut wooden doors, possibly for _privacy_ , ahead of her, a bed beneath her, bandages covering her and her wrists able to move freely was more than she'd had in months. A small smile crept up on her face.

She'd gotten away.

It was more than she had hoped for the entire time she'd been hung up and tortured in a million different ways. As she relished in the thought of freedom when she'd expected only death at Driftshade, the doors creaked open and an old women peeked in. Her eyes widened at Niredia and she grinned, "Ah, you're awake! I'll get Aela."

Before Niredia could ask who that was or what was going on, the door shut and retreating footsteps echoed. They returned, but now there was two sets that Niredia could hear and murmurs.

"She's finally awake?" A gruff sounding voice asked. "After what Danica said I didn't think she'd make it..."

"She has, thank the Nine," A female voice, also familiar, responded. "We'll find out what happened."

A scoff. "I already told you," someone – Vilkas, Niredia recognized – said. "Read that damned journal."

After a moment, the door creaked open and the members of what Niredia instantly recognized as the Circle entered her room.

She was too mentally exhausted to answer all the questions they were going to have.


	6. Chapter 6

Aela was brimming with questions, and was without a bit of sympathy over the confused Harbinger who sat, dressed in nothing but bandages. A new priestess of Kynareth had come with Danica to see her duties, and had been ordered to cut some of the tangled, knotted, and uneven hair. It was just past her chin now, the front of it jutting out like two wispy black tusks. Her previous muscles had been reduced to as thin as blades of grass.

With each question, Niredia seemed even more uncomfortable, shifting around in the blankets and brushing her hair behind her ear. Even at the first one – What happened when you got to Riften? – she didn't seem to know the answer.

"I, uh," she'd mumbled, "I don't really remember."  
By the sixth question she didn't know the answer to, Vilkas pushed himself of the wooden door he was listening at.

"It seems she doesn't really remember _much_ ," he said. "Anything really. When I got to Driftshade, she didn't seem to remember me. Took her a moment."

Farkas' eyes shifted from the ground to Aela, who asked, "Well... what _do_ you remember?"

Niredia twisted the corner of the blanket around her fingers. "I know my name... I know where I was, what was happening to me there. I know who you all are, I, uh, I know where I am," she said, and then coughed. "I don't know. It'll probably come back to me later."

The three Circle members with their memories still intact exchanged glances.

"Well, it won't do anything to sit here and wait," Aela noted. "Vilkas, you could take her out back and see what she can still do?"

Barking out a laugh, Vilkas said, "She can barely stand! How's she expected to even lift a sword?"

Waving him away, Aela stood. "Danica said that the potions and spells and such would start working quicker when she was concious. It's not like we're asking her to really fight you."

She didn't let him argue any longer, and left without saying another thing to Niredia. Farkas, on the other hand, looked back at the Harbinger and smiled. "Glad you're back, Harbinger."

Huffing out a sigh, Vilkas looked at Niredia. "Right. Well, get that armor on," he said, gesturing to the armor on the dresser across from her, "and meet me in the courtyard, alright?"

He didn't let her respond, and left the room before she tried to stand up. Why couldn't Farkas do it, or Aela? He'd done it the first time when she'd first joined.

The hall was buzzing, the Companions milling around and murmuring about the returned Harbinger. Their eyes all went to Vilkas when he entered, and a few followed him outside.

Even with the sun beaming high overhead, the chill was still getting worse, but Vilkas had been raised in this environment. The cold seeping through his armor barely bother him any more.

He picked up his shield and waited for Niredia.

* * *

 

The armor was clearly new, its gleaming steel without a single scratch of scruff. A small wolf's head sat above the breast plate. _Oh right,_ she thought, _Eorland made it for me when I first joined the Circle..._

She wondered why it had never been worn as she slipped it over her bandages, and found out right after. It pinched every bit of her skin that wasn't covered by the bandages, and she could definitely tell that these boots were going to be giving her blisters.

It didn't seem that there was any other armor around, so she picked up a steel sword and strapped the sheath to her belt.

Keeping her eyes down as to not meet the eyes of the staring Companions as she passed through the hall, Niredia made her way out to the courtyard. Vilkas was waiting for her with a shield in his hand, an annoyed look on his face. In this way, he reminded her of Undgvar with the way he traipsed about Driftshade with a look as if he may hurl insults at any soul passing by.

She pushed the thought away and approached Vilkas, who looked up at her arrival and adressed her with a nod. "Alright," he said, "just have a few swings at me so we can see how you're doing."

Swallowing a knot in her throat, Niredia nodded and took two steps back, pulling her blade. She wondered if the people watching her knew where she'd been all these months.

The sword in her hand didn't feel very familiar, but the feeling of holding a blade did. Vilkas nodded his head and raised his brows as if asking her if she was ready, and with her nod, he raised his shield.

Niredia swung aimlessly, prompting Vilkas to tease, "Master swordswoman, huh? Seems you got a bit rusty..."

Regaining her form, Niredia position her sword. This time, when she swung, Vilkas had to push his shield quickly to dodge it. She smirked and hit him again, he clang of steel echoing. A spot of red caught her eyes, and she found herself staring into a familiar pair of green ones. A mage with bright red hair kept in two low buns at the bottom of her head watched Niredia, a few loose curls whipping in the wind. The mage had half a smile on her face, her eyes twinkling. _Sivonne!_

She grinned at her sister, completely forgetting about Vilkas. "Sivonne!" she said aloud, hugging the red-headed Imperial who laughed and wrapped her arms tightly around the steel covering Niredia.  
"Oh, it's so good to see you!" Sivonne cried, and pulled away, keeping her hands on Niredia's shoulders. "Where have you been?"

In surprise, Niredia's eyes flickered over at Vilkas, who shook his head. "Just... I'll tell you later, okay? I should get back." She smiled, ignoring the frown on Sivonne's face.

Vilkas' lips twitched into a frown, but he held his shield up anyway.

By the time the sun began to dip, Niredia could barely lift her arm, and she'd realized how hungry was. Her plan was to get inside and absorb some of the food waiting on the table – well, most of the food.

She picked up a platter and filled it with cheese, bread, grilled chicken, and what she was pretty sure was seared slaughterfish. She cut what she needed to quite intensely, shoving the food in her face.

An angry looking Nord wearing hide armor and a crooked helmet stormed up to her, grabbing her fork to still it. "Where were you?" she seethed through her teeth. Her eyes were narrowed at Niredia. "You don't just _leave_ for sixth months like that. What were you even doing, huh?" Her eyes glistening with anger.

Niredia's mouth opened slightly as she tried to think of a response, but before she could try to say anything, Aela spoke from behind her. "She was being tortured, Njada."

Sitting beside Farkas, Vilkas' eyes bulged as Aela continued, "Some insane warlocks knocked her out and she woke up as a subject for some sick experiment."

Njada's lips twitched before turning around on her heel and leaving just as angry as she had come.

Niredia pushed back her plate, suddenly feeling sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long... Hope you enjoyed!


	7. Chapter 7

The long awaited return of the Harbinger was not being celebrated due to Aela's morbid announcement, and, though nobody would say so, because of how quiet Niredia was being. In fact, even Torvar went to bed sober, leaving the only sound in the entire building to be snores that were undoubtedly Farkas'.

Despite his headache, Vilkas couldn't sleep. It was too hot with the blankets, too cold without, and his single-leg-sticking-out-from-under-the-blanket trick wasn't working.

He sat up, giving up on sleep for now. A few strands of dark hair fell in his eyes and he huffed them away as he lit a candle.

The dim light barely illuminated the room, and as Vilkas stared at the dripping wax, a small ring caught his eye. A tiny wolf's head on the band, a few scratches on it. He'd forgotten to give it to her when she'd gotten back, but it wasn't as if he'd really had a chance.

With sleep alluding him, there was no point not to bring Niredia her ring. By now, she was probably asleep, but it couldn't hurt to drop the ring off in her room. It would, at the very least, give Vilkas something to do besides stare at the wall.

His footsteps couldn't even be heard as he padded down the stone hallway, being drowned out by Farkas' snores. How had Vilkas never noticed his brother's terrible snoring before?

Niredia's doors were wide open, revealing most of her chambers. Identical wooden doors lead to where she slept, and when he opened the door, all he found was an empty bed with rumpled green blankets embroidered with gold thread.

After a few minutes of searching, he found her with her cheek pressed to the table in the mead hall. He didn't even realize she was awake until her eyes blinked slowly.

He noticed a few empty bottles of mead lying on the table and it seemed odd to him; Niredia rarely drank. Occasionally, she'd be caught taking sips of mead or wine, but never anymore than a few sips. There were about four bottles that Vilkas assumed were hers.

She peeled her face off of the table at his approach, and looked at him with eyes that didn't seem to acknowledge him, and after a moment, she pulled her legs up to the chair. "What?" she asked, as if he'd been watching her.

"How much did you have to drink?" Vilkas inquired with a touch of annoyance. He was supposed to be working with her some more tomorrow on her sword arm. This morning after she'd gotten a few good swings in, she'd broken her streak. He didn't want her complaining about a hangover tomorrow.

"I do not get drunk," Niredia countered. "As I have been told many times today, _I_ am the _Harbinger_ of the _Companions_."

Vilkas snorted as she stood up, stumbling just a bit before regaining her balance. Her sword was still strapped to her belt as if she expected a fight any minute. It hadn't been her sword – it was just one that Eorland had laying around – but she used it well. Her favorite bow was gone, too, probably taken by one of Silver Hand. It had been of Dwarven make, with chinks that Niredia had always dug at with her thumb when she was bored.

Vilkas hated noticing things like this.

He stepped forward, his stomach tensing and his feet reluctantly moving.When he spoke, his words felt strained. "Do you need any help?" 

Her response overlapped his words – "No, I can walk." – and he realized how different their accents were; his Nordic one, and her Cyrodiilic twang.

She was ridiculous as she walked, eyes widening with every step, gripping the wall and refusing any begrudging offer of help Vilkas gave her. It was hard not to laugh when her knee bent forward and she exclaimed, "Whoa!"  
The walk was long due to Niredia's stumbling walk, the steel of her boots scraping the ground. She was probably disturbing the entire hall with her cries and armor. Vilkas moved around her like he was waiting for her to collapse. 

The oddest part was when she began to giggle, which turned to a snort and then drunken laughter that strangely made Vilkas want to laugh, too.

Perhaps this was why she never drank much before. 

She managed to set herself down in a chair against the wall. It was the chair that Vilkas had been sitting in when he'd first seen her coming in, wearing steel plate armor with a helmet under her arm, her bow strapped across her back and a Dwarven quiver with random types of arrows stocked. Her hair had been too long for a warrior – it had fallen to her hips, and was thicker than rope. She'd looked angry when she'd gotten there, and Vilkas worried that she'd heard Kodlak and Vilkas talking.

Now, she kicked off her boots and Vilkas saw angry red blisters on her feet where the boots had rubbed too hard. Her gauntlets came after that, hitting the wooden table loudly. She pinched the crust of a fresh loaf of bread that Tilma had probably lain out and popped it in her mouth. 

"Oh, by the way," Vilkas said, holding out his hand, "I found this." He dropped the ring on the table.

Niredia lifted it and stared at it, moving her eyes over every scratch. She slipped it on her index finger and examined it in the dim light of the single candle burning. 

Vilkas nodded his head and pressed his lips together as he turned around. 

"Uh, Vilkas," Niredia called. He turned back. "Do... do you still have that journal? I wanted to know what they were trying to do that whole time."

Her voice was quiet, as if she didn't want Vilkas to hear her. "Yeah," he replied. It was just then that he realized how tired he was, his head hurting very suddenly and, for lack of a better word, heavily. That was just how he felt to describe it. 

"I'll get it to you in the morning, alright?" he asked, his own voice soft. 

She nodded, but before he could get out of the room, she said something again that he couldn't quite make out.

"What?" he asked.

Niredia was chasing another piece of read around on her plate, flicking it. Her eyes were sort of glazed over as she looked at him, and the look on her face reminded him of Torvar, but sadder. "Calcen wanted to find out how I reacted to stuff," she explained quietly. "He knew it in my... Gods, I don't know what to call it."

She pulled her legs up, hugging her knees to her chest on the chair. "Body? Human form? I hate this," she continued, rambling now. "He wanted me in the  _other way_ , to see what happened when I was injured like that. He said he would kill me after.

"I was going to. It hurt so damn bad, and it would be so easy, you know? But I felt like, if I did, they would win you know?"

After a moment, she dropped her eyes and her face was pinched what with seemed like embarrassment. 

"Sorry," she whispered, and the bolted up.

She shut the door to her bed, the breeze from it blowing the candle out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an excuse.

The sun was too bright.

Niredia shuffled into the courtyard, blinking at the bright light bouncing off of anything just the slightest bit reflective. She even had to shield her eyes from the candles in the halls this morning.

She'd woken up this morning covered in a thin sheen of sweet, a throbbing headache accompanying her wake, and hadn't remembered talking to Vilkas until she'd seen him waiting sullenly in the courtyard for her, leaning against the stone wall. Why was he always leaning against things?

She remembered letting something slip last night, drunk and her eyes burning, but couldn't recall if it was really something important. Had she told him that her wrists still her from the rusted manacles, or that his name had brought her comfort with its familiarity?

She was slower than usual when they trained, considering the fact that she had to close her eyes after every swing. Her blinks were long and slow, and the dull swords they used for practice hit her armor every time Vilkas swung.

"This is pointless," he said eventually, lowering the old sword. I suppose that's why you never drank?" Any humor he'd had before was gone, leaving an annoyed look on his face.  
Nireda shrugged sheepishly and poked at one of the cracks in the stone with her blade. It took just the smallest amount of alcohol to get her words to slur; two bottles of mead would give her a hangover. Sivonne could drink bottle after bottle and just start giggling. More than and Niredia was out.

Vilkas scowled, like he always did at her. "Give me the sword," he sighed, taking the hilt of the blade. He stormed off, leaving Niredia to wonder again why he disliked her so much.

*

The blisters on her feet were burning and biting, but Niredia barely noticed them. Sivonne was talking to her about their childhood, as if Niredia couldn't remember a thing.  
But she remembered leaving Cyrodiil very young, just after she'd learned how to really talk, getting her t's out, growing up in the College of Winterhold, running around with Sivonne and always falling behind in lessons. Her father had accepted that she wasn't a mage long before he stopped teaching her.

She remembered when her father, one of the best professors at the College, had come down with an illness that no mage or alchemist could cure. He'd blamed it on the cold, but Niredia and Sivonne had heard rumors that it was because of his experiments with alchemy and sells over the years that had sickened him. 

"You remember Savos Aren?" Sivonne asked, taking a bite of bread. She continued with a full mouth, which wasn't unlike her, "Well, he's Arch-Mage now..."

Niredia felt bad about nodding her head and pretending like she was listening, but try as she might, she couldn't bring herself to really care about who the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold was. She'd never been much of a mage; she simply didn't inherit her father's abilities. He'd told her constantly, usually when he was tired and his voice was a whisper or a breath of air, that she was all her mother. Black hair, green eyes, and a look of general anger. And even a slight obsession with what happened to the Dwemer, though Niredia's was very slight. If she found a Dwarven weapon or anything Dwarven at all, she'd keep it. She wondered where that old bow was...

"Are you even listening to me?" Sivonne whined, but there was a smile on her face. "I'll have to go soon, though. I can't stick around here forever..."

Her younger sister, on the other hand, was a female version of their father, despite her eyes. The red hair, her fascination with every school of magic, her rambling, the freckles that were rather charming on her cheeks and nose. 

It was hard to admit, but Niredia was kind of relieved that Sivonne was leaving soon. She could finally pick at the great wall of books that sat in her room.

*

"Promise you'll write soon, okay? Don't go getting kidnapped by bandits again," Sivonne whispered, her arms wrapped too tightly around Niredia. She could hardly feel them through the steel of her armor. 

She breathed out a laugh as Sivonne released her grip, and then smiled and waved as she departed down the stone steps of Jorrvaskr. 

After her sister had gone out of sight, Niredia walked, bow in hand, to the back of Jorrvaskr. Just like with the sword and the ring around her finger, it was a good feeling to be holding a bow. Aela had promised to refresh her on her archery today.

Vilkas was sitting with Farkas, who was laughing at his own story, and his eyes met Niredia's almost immediately. The small smile on his face drooped a bit, and again, Niredia wondered what she could've told him. 

She was thankful that they were done with whatever training they'd been having. It was just awkward, because she could tell that he didn't like her very much.  
Aela was waiting for her at the targets, and at the sight of Niredia, pulled her bow from its place strapped on her back. She pulled an arrow and hit it nearly dead center.

"You used to be able to do that. Well, you probably still can," she added. "But let's see what you can still do."

Niredia took a breath and pulled an arrow, aiming for the center. When she let it go, it hit her mark. Better than Aela's when she hadn't even shot a single arrow in months, but she didn't say anything.  
Aela snorted. "I guess you don't need any help." She re-positioned her bow on her back and nodded her head at Niredia before walking away.

She was sort of at a loss for what to do now. She'd counted on training with Aela to fill up a big chunk of her day, but clearly Aela had other plans. 

Because Niredia didn't really kow how to talk to the people here. She knew them, vaguely, and knew some things about them; Athis thought she should be taller; Njada thought she was lazy and, now, that they needed a Harbinger who could actually remember their names; Farkas liked her because he thought she was tough; Ria liked her just because Ria was nice. She had nothing to talk to them about, even if she tried.

So she thought of the books downstairs.

*

Her headache was making it impossible to read the text across the page. She blinked at the ink on the page in front of her. Was that light in her left eye from the candle or just a vein bulging in her head?

She shut the book and let out a sigh. Footsteps echoed in the hallway just outside, and Tilma poked her head in. "I head you've got a bit of a headache, dear," she said with a small smile. "I used to find that a walk usually helps."

Niredia smiled at the maid. "The suns too bright for me too take a walk, I think," she told her. 

Later on, though, when she was starting to sweat underneath the blankets of her dark bedroom, the nausea in her throat wasn't giving way and her headache still beat in her head, Niredia sat up. Her short black hair was reaching her chin by now, tangled from her long day of curling up underneath her blankets. She tied it up, the thick string tickling her bare neck. 

The sun had dipped below the line of trees, but still managed to cast a bit of light on Whiterun. The cold breeze felt good on her neck, even her head as she walked down the road, passing Honningbrew Meadery. She rushed past that, the smell of mead on the wind that Torvar always remarked upon making her feel even more nauseous. 

She walked until she passed a broken tree on a downhill, two large towers jutting up out of the bank of the river. A thin stone bridge closed the gap, and from the ground she could see a man covered in fur armor.

Niredia's heart dropped, her breath stopped, and black dots blurred her vision. After a shake of her head, she pulled the bow from her back.

It took less than three seconds to aim and fire an arrow into the man who was probably a bandit. She didn't see exactly where the arrow landed, but the man fell straight into the river far below him.

She ducked behind a bush as a few other people ran out of the towers. Shouting ensued, and Niredia ran into the woods.

She didn't bother looking at the ground as she sprinted through the trees. If they grab me they'll get me, they'll kill me, they'll torture me again. Any kind of logic had fled her mind; fur armor was all the Silver Hand ever wore, probably because of how cold Dawnstar is. 

Then she smelled something.

Her enter body stilled. Her heart slowed, her breathing regulated, and her feet completely stopped when she saw the elk ahead of her, looking right at her, before it took off.  
It was something similar that took over Niredia, nerves and excitement and a hunger that wasn't quite humane. Her bow slipped from her fingertips, and she quickly took over her armor so it wouldn't be destroyed.

Even as the elk ran, Niredia could still smell it. She felt her bones stretching, her skin tugging over it. Any excitement she had drained as she felt herself shifting, changing into... into what they had called her when she was with the Hand.

She was a monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So, the first couple of weeks I didn't write anything was just writer's block, and then something very personal happened. When someone very close to you passes away, it's pretty hard to get back into writing. I did try again a couple of months ago, but then I ended up having to get my entire hard drive replaced. Then I just sort of... forgot.  
> But now I'm starting again! I'm pretty happy to start writing this again, I really enjoy it.   
> I'm really sorry for not working on this in the past six months, but I promise I'm getting back into this!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, again. I'm getting better, though; I already have the next chapter half-way written. Please don't hate me!

Undgvar had three vivid memories of his life with his real parents; the incredibly brave chickens that had stood up for themselves against a fox, his father coming home from the war, and a werewolf attacking the farm just a few days after he returned.

It had slaughtered his parents, roared at Undgvar, and stepped forward just before being shot from behind by a silver arrow. A group of Silver Hands dragged the body away, leaving one behind to take him to Honorhall. Unfortunately, that particular man was dead when Undgvar joined them, so he couldn’t punch him in the jaw.

His feet were aching after he climbed the twisting hill. His bowstring was rubbing against his neck, and he was feeling a surge of regret that he hadn’t used the coin that had been left over at Driftshade to buy a horse.

When he had returned from a lone hunt, Undgvar had found Driftshade to be empty and bloody. Tavti coughed and rolled over, dying blind and deaf, not noticing a thing. She’d died not long after, knowing Undgvar was there only because of the hand squeezes he gave her every once in a while when her breath started to get ragged and short.

The werewolf prisoner was gone. Undgvar had no idea how she had the ability to change, let alone get out, so he knew someone had helped her. The only problem was, he couldn’t exactly walk into Jorrvaskr and kill them all without getting himself killed. He wore the common fur armor of a bandit, and had only a dagger and the prisoner’s bow; he’d always had an interest in Dwarven things, so when he hit her hard in the head with his mother’s shovel he’d kept the bow she had. It was enchanted, too, and every arrow he shot sparked when it ran along the weapon and caught fire in the air. The chink in it provided a nice place to rest his thumb when he was idle.

His hope was that she’d died on the way back from blood loss or a bandit attack, or perhaps had gone blind. Her eyes had gone rather glassy towards the end.

If either of those were true, he’d have a good chance of infiltrating the Companions and kill them from the inside. What was left of the Silver Hand was gone now, and Undgvar would take one last shot at wiping out the werewolves of the Companions.

A group of bandits had taken over the towers he saw ahead. He couldn’t see any now, but he remembered Thrynn, at the orphanage, saying he was heading for the towers just outside of Whiterun to join a bandit clan.

It wasn’t until the body rolled up to shore, an arrow sticking out of its eye. The man had clearly just died, his blood still flowing from his wound. Undgvar pressed his lips together.

The last bit of sunlight, falling below the line of trees, shone off of a set of familiar armor tucked behind a rock. A Dwarven blade that made Undgvar’s fingers twitch towards it poked out. His eyes skipped around the area near it, searching for any sign of life, before making his way towards it.

A roar sounded from the woods, one that any other person would mistake for an angry bear. But a member of the Silver Hand, someone who had tracked and hunted and killed a dozen werewolves, would know the sound of one roaring.

* * *

 

Sitting underneath the canopy of trees, Niredia counted her scars. Lines of pink, raised skin shone in the sunlight that managed to slip through the leaves and branches above her.

Four, five, six on her forearm, twelve on her thigh alone. She poked at a burn mark on her shoulder that hadn’t quite healed, but she could barely feel it.

She stayed at her spot on the rock, feeling her hair brush her shoulders. It was a detail that she had completely forgotten about until now; after every transformation, she found her hair to be a bit longer than before.

There was a pile of pebbles on the edge of the rock, one that a child had probably set up wandering the woods. Niredia picked one up, stared at it for a moment, before setting it down and standing up. She’d been waiting for dark, hoping that the bandits had retreated back into their tower. She slipped out of the forest, glanced around in case of a lone traveler going down the road.

Niredia tugged on her armor, latched what she had to, and tossed her bow over her back. She sheathed her blade, and noticed suddenly the ring Vilkas had returned to her glinting in the moonlight.

She picked it up, stared at if for a moment, and tossed it into the river.

* * *

 

She had to be around here _somewhere_.

He’d followed her tracks past the giant camp and into the woods, just until they disappeared up a creek bed. He saw ones heading back, but those were the footprints of a woman, not a beast.

Undgvar swatted a glowing torchbug off of his arm and frowned at his missing tracking. She was definitely alive, which foiled all of his plans.

Perhaps… perhaps he could go to her, pretend to beg her to let him in. He had vowed, once, to Krev, that he would never beg a werewolf for his life, never bend knee. But Krev was dead, and she would be rather proud of him for wiping out the Circle.

With a heavy sniff, Undgvar put away his bow. He began to follow the tracks again, this time just making sure he found the road again. The idea of going begging to a werewolf was more repulsive than just joining, but there was no other way to kill them. To get revenge, really, but he wouldn’t let himself admit it.

The night chill was getting to him as he walked to Whiterun. Horses nickered at him, stomping their hooves restlessly as he passed the stables. He eyed the one that was already saddled, knowing that if he needed a quick escape, he could always take it.

This late at night the streets of Whiterun were empty, except for the occasional guard. The inn was clearly bustling with people. As Undgvar neared it a drunk Redguard burst out, singing a song that’s lyrics definitely weren’t supposed to be slurred that much.

He was tall, even for a Nord, so he had to duck underneath the inn’s door. The innkeeper was preoccupied showing another traveler to their room, so he waited at the bar for her to get back.

Nerves for tomorrow jumbled up in his stomach. Undgvar was brave, especially for a farm boy, but seeing the woman he’d helped torture tomorrow made him feel queasy.

Calcen had gone past just curiosity into cruelty when they tortured the Harbinger. Leaving silver weaponry in her arms and legs, throwing her into cages and using spells and having arrows shot into her. He’d pad well, but at one point it made even some of the fiercest hunters uncomfortable.

At one point, she’d blacked out while Undgvar shot her with her own bow. Fire and silver, joined together to hurt her even more. This was after the first stage of just seeing her reaction. Calcen had just wanted her to transform so he could cut her open and see what she looked like as a wolf. He hadn’t been in the room, though; he’d been asleep, waiting for Undgvar to wake him up with good or bad news. In a moment of mercy, he’d plucked the arrows from her and put a healing salve on for just a moment, just to where they stopped bleeding and began to close.

The woman had been nothing but mush by that point, reduced to whimpers and silent tears while they hurt her. She’d smelled like death, and looked like it. Her cheeks had been hallow, her eyes sunken in, and there was a sadness to here that made it seem like she was ready to die. But she’d made it clear that she wouldn’t let them win.

And for that, Undgvar couldn’t help but admire her.

* * *

 

Despite how uncomfortable he’d been with Niredia after she’d revealed a bit of information to him, Vilkas wanted to try to keep speaking with her. She was the Harbinger, after all, and his silent brooding and jealousy couldn’t change that.

 

She was really easy to talk to, though. Always reading or shoot arrows or swinging a Dwarven sword she’d found. He had a plan for this afternoon; talk to her while she read or catch her when she was practicing. That was really the extent.

He found her sitting in the Hall, using a dagger to cut bits of grilled chicken up. She didn’t really seem as if she was going to eat it, just play with it until she thought of something else to do.

Vilkas was nearing Niredia when the doors opened wide, letting in the late morning sunlight, just a bit blocked by the shadow a rather large Nord. He had a familiar Dwarven bow in his hands, another long bow on his back.

When Niredia looked up, her dagger clattered to the plate. Any color she’d managed to get in the past month or so drained from her face as she looked at the man, who lifted the bow up to her. With a voice low enough for Vilkas to barely here, he said, “Can I please speak with you?”

Niredia stood abruptly, her chair scraping across the stone floor. Anyone who hadn’t been looking already noticed then, silence filling the mead hall except for the crackling of the hearth.

The Harbinger pulled her sword so fast Vilkas barely saw it. She swung with an anger he’d last seen the first time they cleared Driftshade, a ferocity marked with pure hatred. The Nord ducked and raised his arm to catch the blow, and the blade ran along his arm. Niredia moved her arm back to swing again, but before she could, Vilkas grabbed her arm. He motioned for help, and Njada and Farkas grabbed onto her as well.

With quite a struggle Vilkas managed to knock her sword out of her grip, but in the quick moment that his grip was loosened she snatched the dagger from the plate and threw it with a strength he had _never_ seen in her. The Nord dodged it again, and the dagger lodged itself in the wooden beam behind him. Murmurs filled the hall as Niredia struggled to get out of the three’s grip, and Vilkas turned back to the Nord who really didn’t seem all that surprised.

“Get out of here!” he shouted, nodding to the door.

The Nord dropped the bow and left that hall quickly, while Vilkas, Njada, and Farkas dragged the Harbinger away.


	10. Chapter 10

 They’d locked her in her room, which was to be expected. They didn’t know that was one of the men who tortured her, burned her and stabbed her and shot her. Maybe she should’ve said something while they were dragging her away.

Niredia turned back towards the large bookshelf. She could’ve read one of the books stacked on the shelves, but her mind was racing much too fast for that.

Why was Undgvar here? She’d been under the impression that Vilkas had killed him. Had he thought the same about him, or wouldn’t recognize him? Of all the things he’d done to torture her, it was foolish of him to think so. His face was burned into her mind, more so than any of her other torturers and guards at Driftshade, because most every time he hurt her he’d either smile or look away in disgust as her skin bubbled from heat and bled from her wounds. He’d look at her as if it were her fault.

She sat heavily down at the table, running her hands through her cropped hair. She screamed into the wood, which did little to muffle the sound.

The bread in front of her was just a crust when the key slid in the lock and Tilma pushed open the door. The Circle rushed in, and Vilkas met Niredia with a glare that made her want to shrivel up against the stone wall.

“What in Oblivion was that?” Aela shouted. “What you’ve been through would mess anyone up, but a stranger enter Jorrvaskr and you _attack_?”

“He wasn’t a stranger,” Niredia said quietly, and noticed Vilkas look at her.

Aela continued, not hearing a thing. “Perhaps Njada was right. Maybe we do need a new Harbinger.” She shook her head, turning towards the door.

“He wasn’t a stranger,” the Harbinger said again, louder this time. Her eyes were glued to the wooden plate across from the table. She didn’t move, her legs locked in their position on her chair, her arms wrapping around them. “He’s a member of the Silver Hand. I thought he was dead” — she glanced at Vilkas – “but he’s alive.” _Undgvar was alive._

* * *

When the Bard played Ragnar the Red for the fourth time that morning, Undgvar had pushed off his stool and headed nervously for Jorrvaskr.

It hadn't been that surprising when she'd attacked him. He'd actually expected it; but she'd thrown that dagger _hard_.

As his blood seeped into the grass, Undgvar huffed. He wished he hadn’t dropped the bow; it would’ve given him another excuse to go back into Jorrvaskr. Of course, he didn’t want to have his arm cut off next time, but he needed to get back inside.

The wound was too deep to just wait for it to stop bleeding, which he knew was a foolish thing to do anyway. He heaved himself up from the grass, and walked towards the temple nearby.

As he entered the temple, someone walking much too quickly slammed into him. Undgvar stumbled back, hitting his head hard on a wooden beam. After a few blinks to refocus his eyes, Undgvar recognized the fur armor, the silver great sword on her back, the two thick blonde braids over her shoulders. _How_ was Elda possibly alive?

She was tall, even for a Nord, with thick blonde hair she always kept in two braids over her shoulders. Thick smears of black war-paint covered her face, like always, but coupling that now was a look of surprise.

“Undgvar?” she asked, holding out a hand. “I… I thought you were dead!” She frowned as Undgvar waved her hand away. “When we came back to Driftshade everyone was dead.”

Undgvar blinked. “We?” A flutter of hope sounded in his chest as Elda answered.

She squinted upwards as she thought. “Velyn, Lysanna, Ruffe and I,” she answered. “There were more when we were at Faldar’s Tooth, but then the Legion came in and cleared us out. We were the only ones that got away.”

He nearly laughed at himself; a few months ago, Mael had sent a group to Faldar’s Tooth when Driftshade had gotten a bit cramped. Why hadn’t he thought about _that_?

“Anyway, Velyn went back to Solsthiem. He heard the minds have opened back up in Raven Rock, so,” Elda said shrugging. “Lysanna’s in Riverwood, cutting wood for coin. Ruffe got pissed on the way here, stole a horse and ran off, so it’s just me.”

A drop of blood fell to the ground, reminding Undgvar of the reason he came to the temple in the first place. “Oh, I need to get this fixed,” he said, lifting up his arm to show Elda what he was referring to.

“I can fix that for you,” she told him, holding his hand closer to her face. “Come on.”

In the room he’d rented at the Bannered Mare, Elda bandaged up Undgvar’s arm. Afterwards they went to the bar, where they both rented a room for another night and ordering dinner.

“So what are you doing in Whiterun?” she asked after taking a bite of pheasant. A bit of grease, or maybe butter, dripped down her chin. She wiped it away with the fur on her arm.

Undgvar had finished his half of a loaf of bread, and had begun to chip at the wooden table with is dagger. “I was tracking that wolf that Calcen was paying us to keep locked up,” he confided. “She was the Harbinger of the Companions, and she’s the one who gave me this cut.” Hulda clunked his bowl of stew in front of him and he ducked down to drink it. “I was trying to join the Companions… It seems like a fool’s errand now, but I was going to try to kill them all from the inside.” He snorted into the half-empty bowl below him, not wanting to meet Elda’s eyes in embarrassment. “Poison them or something. But she recognized me, the one we had at Driftshade. She attacked me on the spot.”

A look of concentration came over Elda’s face. “Maybe I could help you,” she said slowly, a plan forming quickly in her head. “I never did anything to that wolf, never even saw her.” Her eyes darted around as she thought. “I could try to join. I’m strong enough, she won’t recognize me… I can use a fake name just in case someone mentioned it.”

Their voices were low as they made their plans to infiltrate the Companions and wipe out the Circle. They had no idea what the regular members of the Companions new, so they decided to leave them alive.

“This is going to be hard,” Elda breathed late into the night when everyone else gone to bed, excluding the Redguard tapping on a cooking pot in the back room. “But I don’t want all these plans to go to waste.”

* * *

 

Vilkas had seen Undgvar scouring Whiterun as if he hadn’t been attacked by the Harbinger of the Companions days before. Another traveler, one he didn’t recognize, was passing through, and seemed to be getting closer to Jorrvaskr every day. It was clear she wanted to join the Companions, but Vilkas couldn’t tell what her intentions were. She came here just a day after Undgvar, and he couldn’t help but feel as if she was a bit suspicious.

Niredia hadn’t even stepped outside in days, locked in her rooms all day reading. Occasionally she went upstairs. Once to yank her dagger from the wooden beam it had been stuck in, and a second time grab the bow everyone had been too afraid to touch.

And now, she was here for the third time since the incident. She sipped on some of the wine in front of her, not meeting any of the numerous pairs of eyes staring at him. Everyone seemed to be waiting for her to throw a dagger at them.

The doors to Jorrvaskr opened up again, and everyone tensed as a Nord entered, the one Vilkas found himself being rather suspicious of. Her scaled armor seemed a bit too tight, and the steel great-sword strapped across her back was clearly just crafted, the blade shining in the firelight. Her eyes scanned the room, not landing on anyone specific. If everyone in the hall hadn’t been staring at her, it would’ve been much easier for her to ask how to join.

Niredia seemed to be trying very hard not to move too quickly. The woman stepped forward, and opened her mouth, “Um, who am I supposed to speak with about joining up?”

The Harbinger stood up. “That would be me,” she answered. She seemed to be shaking as answered, though she didn’t let her voice quiver. In the past three years, she’d let four join the Companions, one of which was dead. Two had left when she was gone, thinking Niredia had abandoned the group. The last had lost their leg while fighting a dragon.

And of course she didn’t remember any of them. They were all gone now, and she had trouble remembering Njada occasionally. Although that did almost seem as if she was doing it on purpose, because of how incredibly rude Njada was to her.

The woman nodded. “My name is Runa,” she said loudly, “and I’d like to join.”

In under twenty-minutes Vilkas found himself behind Jorrvaskr, his shield and sword in hand, waiting on the Nord who called herself Runa. She came out with a nervous look on her face.

“Are you ready?” Vilkas asked. Niredia stood outside for the first time in days, watching them. He glanced at her as she settled into a chair to watch.

* * *

 

The new girl swung well for such a skinny Nord. Eventually Vilkas did what he did with all the whelps; gave them his sword and asked them to take it up to Eorland to get it sharpened.

 _Why_ had Kodlak chosen her to be Harbinger? Niredia wasn’t very wise; she was smart, about somethings, but she wasn’t as wise as he was. She’d only been a Companion for a _year_ when he died, and gave her the position! She was honored, of course, but how was she supposed to lead the Companions?

As she watched Runa go around to the Sky Forge, Niredia pushed away the resurfaced nervousness. She had just accepted another initiate; she couldn’t start his dwelling _again_.

She dug her thumb into a familiar chink her bow. From there, she could see the top of Runa’s head, bright blonde in the sunlight.

There was something about her that Niredia couldn’t put her finger on. Maybe it was the tar-black war paint she wore, how tall she was, or maybe it was just the way she stood that made the Harbinger distrust her so much.

As she stared at the woman standing at the Sky Forge, Niredia made a mental note not to trust her.

Vilkas was walking back to the mead hall when Niredia stood up, nearly causing her to run into him. “Oh, sorry,” they both mumbled awkwardly.

“Is she very good?” Niredia asked him, but the words felt forced. Vilkas just nodded uncomfortably, not offering up a real answer.

With an _incredibly_ awkward smile Niredia turned on her heel and went back into Jorrvaskr, attempting to shove away any embarrassment.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short, but I have a reason; I'm watching the Office on Netflix while I write, and the last episode is on and it's so emotional and I started crying and it was horrible. I'm sorry.

Sitting beside the cookpot in the Bannered Mare, Undgvar waited for Elda to come back. He picked at the chicken in front of him. His head had begun to ache, his eyelids grown heavy, and more than once he found them involuntarily shut.

He rubbed eyes, listening to the bard's flute playing come to a halt as he realized there was no one left inside to listen. The doors creaked open behind him, and he craned his neck to see Elda enter the inn.

“Sorry I’m late,” she apologized as she sat down across from Undgvar, crossing her legs beneath the table. “I had to wait until everyone got drunk or went to bed.”

They’d gone over meeting in Riverwood instead, just in case someone who couldn’t sleep came wandering down, but Elda had shot the idea down. She decided it would be better to risk being caught and probably killed by the Companions than run into Lysanna. Of course, Undgvar couldn’t stay around Whiterun until it was done. He suggested Helgen, but that, of course, was much too far for her to walk every night.

“Perhaps we don’t exactly need to meet _every_ night,” she pointed out, stealing sips of wine from Undgvar’s tankard. “It’ll look suspicious if I disappear every night, in case someone wakes up. Maybe you can stay in Helgen and I can take jobs, and come see you.” She shrugged, a heavy blonde braid thumping on the table.

Elda wasn’t exactly pretty, but not too horrible to look at. Mael and her had been rather close, before the werewolf in the Companions had slaughtered him. Her lips were thick, cracked and peeling from the cold, and her nose was a short beak. Her eyebrows added onto the appearance that made her seem so much like a hawk. She had the eyes of a hawk, too, able to spot anything from a mile away. That had been one of the reasons Mael had liked her so much.

After telling him about the uneventful night, Elda stood up to head back to Jorrvaskr. They’d come to an agreement; Undgvar would find work in Helgen to pass the time and make some coin, and Elda would visit him to fill him in whenever she could get a chance.

The following morning, Undgvar set out for Helgen. Living in a village had never been his dream, and he would be living there for at least a year while Elda finished her mission. Maybe he’d enjoy more than he thought he would. He sincerely doubted that anything interesting would happen living in such a quant village like Helgen.

* * *

 

Runa had been rather good with her great-sword, managing to send Vilkas’ shield into his face. His nose had begun to bleed just after heading inside Jorrvaskr.

The contempt he used to feel for Niredia had dwindled down to awkward conversations. Perhaps in a decade or so he could talk to her without wanting to forget everything that he had said to her.

It was strange, because he was normally an outgoing person. He was already nicer to Runa that he was to Niredia, a woman who had never given him any real reason for dislike. He just… did. By now, he’d settled that it truthfully _was_ just jealousy. She’d been nothing but nice to him, but he found himself rather bitter about everything she did. Asking him to test out a new recruit, how _dare_ she? Trying to attempt small talk… what a _horrible_ person.

Of course, he didn’t like to think about it. When he finally accepted the jealousy he buried it deep, deep down and told himself he would at least try to be nicer to the Harbinger.

Niredia had always appeared angry, but she looked at Runa with clear distrust. Vilkas still had his own suspicion, of course, but he doubted the woman held any serious threat. To whatever tried to attack her on her travelers, maybe, but not to the Companions.

She’d already been given a job. Getting rid of an animal that had broken in to a home somewhere near Falkreath, a location which she specifically asked for. Vilkas had overheard her asking Farkas if there was any work she could do near that hold. Runa had claimed she had family she’d like to see, although Vilkas suspected otherwise. He was trying not to nose into her business.

He covered his nose with the cloth, attempting to stop his nose bleed. The metal of his shield had hit his nose rather hard, and Runa had apologized immediately after she’d rammed it into his face. It took quite a long time for the bleeding to cease, and as he waited he counted the stones that stuck out in the floor.

A drunken party had come out of the hall, singing much too loudly in the living quarters. Vilkas stepped out of his room, turning around the corner to see who it was, and how many people were with them.

Arms wrapped over each other’s shoulders, Farkas, Athis, and Torvar sang loudly enough for Vilkas to mistake them as the entire mead hall. Niredia stood, a bottle of mead in hand, watching them from the open doorway. She didn’t seem drunk, as she was managing to stand on her own. She had a smile as she laughed at the off-key version of Ragnar the Red. Athis started simply mumbling at one point, not knowing all of the words to the Nordic song.

Niredia moved around them, quickly so she didn’t get trampled as Torvar raised his tankard and practically shouted. She grinned, and Vilkas found himself tensing up the closer she got. It was too late to duck back inside, as Farkas had already seen him and had begun pointing and laughing at Torvar. He sucked a slow breath through his teeth, smiling awkwardly at Niredia who barely seemed to notice him, luckily enough.

Her eyes slid over to him, her smile falling just a bit. “Your brother is ridiculous,” she said with a laugh as Farkas stumbled into the wall. “Earlier, he threw some bread at Aela because of… something.” She waved the rest of the story off, sipping her drink. Her words seemed strained, but she was clearly trying harder with Vilkas than he was with her.

So he tried to force a small chuckle, but it caught and died in his throat. Instead of laughing, it sounded like he had just growled at her, which was what probably led her to say, “So, is there any particular reason you don’t like me?”


End file.
